


Recreational Polystyrene Spheres (The Beanbag Chair Chronicles)

by CavalierConvoy



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One)
Genre: Affectionate Insults, Banter, Drunken Shenanigans, Slice of Life, Wakes & Funerals, clean up, personality change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-30 14:30:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6427696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavalierConvoy/pseuds/CavalierConvoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all fun and games until the Autobots' stash of beanbag chairs are threatened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Evil Teebs is a Jerk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skidblast](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skidblast/gifts).



> Skidblast and I tend to have some fun G1 headcanons we like bouncing off one another, and nothing more so than the beanbag chairs. (And Teebs. We both love Teebs.) These stories tend to be less about the Autobots fighting Decepticons, and more of their interactions between themselves and their human friends.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Autobots realise that Trailbreaker is still under Megatron's recharge bug that made them evil, they try to help. The only problem: he locked himself in Wheeljack's lab with all the engex and beanbag chairs.

While Wheeljack and Sparkplug downloaded the schematics for the F-105s, Ratchet assigned the rest of the team to assist them in the repairs. 

“Keep it up and you’ll get to reassemble the MiGs as well,” Ratchet warned after a particularly long rant from Gears. “Alone.”

“Fortunately for us, the MiGs were destined for the scrapheap anyway,” Sparkplug reminded, pushing a dolly laden with a large air compressor and human-sized tools. “Though might want to consider some sort of…I don’t know what to call it…defence system?…so that the Decepticons don’t do that again?”

“A firewall,” Prowl replied, glaring at Teletraan-1’s screen. “Though technically we’re supposed to receive critical updates during recharge, this is the first time anyone attempted to sabotage the slabs. Under the Tyrest Accord, it’s a banned practice.”

“We’re talkin’ about the ‘Cons here, Prowl,” Ironhide groused, following Sparkplug with a compressor tank over one shoulder and an Autobot-sized torque wrench under the opposite arm. “Seriously doubt the Duly-Appointed Enforcer is gonna come down on them way out here when he’s got planetkillers and warworlds to worry about.”

“Um, hey, Prowl?” Wheeljack returned from the direction of his workshop. “Am I barred again? Can’t remember if I am, but my door won’t open.”

“Not since the last Dinobot escapade,” Prowl muttered. Louder, he added, “No, Wheeljack, I haven’t locked you out of your workshop.”

“Oh.” Scratching at a finial, the inventor chuckled. “Well, I’m locked out. Musta EMPed the pressure pad or something. Can you remote open it?”

Prowl sighed, typing at the console. “There. Try not to — ” he frowned, regarding the blinking red light on the keypad. “That’s odd. It was locked from the inside and the override is engaged.”

“I only do that when I’m working on something dangerous. Or someone tried to steal something outta there. Or someone triggered a thermonuclear weapon in the base — ”

“Wait, you don’t lock your workshop before you leave the base?” Sparkplug demanded.

Wheeljack, optics wide, cocked his head to one side. “Why would I do that?”

“Intruder!” Prowl pointed to Jazz. “Mobilise defence brigade and inform Prime we still have a possible Decepticon infiltrator!" 

"On it like a comet!” Jazz clapped his hands once, then spun on his heel. “Mirage, Sideswipe, Trailbreaker — ”

“Not here,” Sunstreaker interrupted, storming out of the mess hall. “Nor are our bean bag chairs. Oh, and Ironhide, you know that moonshine you were trying to keep secret from Prowl? Missing too. So, anyone wanna put two and two together?”

“What do you mean, moonshine?” Prowl asked.

“Hold on!” Bumblebee held up his hands. “Everyone, let’s think about this! Just because you were under the influence of Megatron’s recharge bug doesn’t mean you did anything differently than what you’d normally do! You were doing everything you would, just evil!”

“That makes no sense — ” Ironhide grumbled.

Prowl cut him off. “Wait. Trailbreaker was on base defence. He would have stayed behind.”

“Exactly!” Bumblebee nodded.

“So you’re thinking while we were evil we shoved Teebs in Wheeljack’s workshop with the beanbag chairs and Ironhide’s moonshine?” Jazz questioned.

“Oh.” Wheeljack’s shoulders slumped. “Um. I have a theory, and it isn’t pleasant.”

“Don’t tell me — ” Sparkplug prompted.

“Yeah.” Looking back at the workshop door, Wheeljack vented hard. “Trailbreaker barricaded himself in there. And he’s still evil.”

The Autobots glanced at one another in varying degrees of concern, before Sunstreaker groaned. “Okay, who else is having a hard time seeing the seriousness of this situation? Other than he stole my favourite bean bag chair?”

*

The blast door was two inches of ununtrium, impervious to even Dinobot fire. After ascertaining that no, Wheeljack could not access the hinges to remove the door, the Autobots gathered around the door, searching for ideas.

“We may have to settle for negotiations,” Prowl suggested. 

“I got this,” Jazz cracked his knuckles and stepped forward. Knocking on the blast door, he raised his voice. “Hey, Teebs, my main mech, how’s it shaking?”  
“Better than you losers!” Trailbreaker shouted from within.

“That’s cool, man! That’s cool.” Jazz shrugged. “Sorry, Prowl, negotiations broke down.”

Prowl growled. “Trailbreaker, this is Prowl.”

“Hey, Prowl! How’s that rod up your tailpipe treating you?”

Gears barked a laugh. Bumblebee nudged his fellow Minibot in warning.

“Trailbreaker, unlock this door right now,” Prowl ordered. “It’s not safe to be in there without supervision.”

“Yeah, there is that barrel of chlorine trifluoride I’ve been meaning to dispose of in there,” Wheeljack muttered. 

“Okay, that’s it!” Sunstreaker slammed his fist against the door. “Trailbreaker, I want my bean bag chair and I want it now!”

“Oh, and how comfy it is! Though there’s this loose string I keep picking at — ”

“You spawn of a glitch! You rip my chair, I’ll short circuit your recharge slab!”

Sideswipe opened his mouth to retort, but held his tongue.

“C'mon, buddy, I’m not mad that you tried out my — um — my supplies,” Ironhide attempted his hand. “Hey, I may have some other — erm — ” he glanced at Prowl, who scowled, “ — other supplies we can give a go — ”

“Don’t bother, got them too!”

“We’ll discuss this later.” Prowl pinched the bridge of his brow. “Wheeljack, are you certain there’s no other way to disengage the lock?”

“Well, there is emergency remote lock release I installed,” Wheeljack rubbed his chin. “Problem is, I need to remember where I put it…”

“Is it silver and red with three buttons?” Trailbreaker called out, before something smashed against the door, followed by the sound of raining debris. “Found it.”

“We’re going to have a talk about that,” Prowl directed his comment to the inventor.

“What seems to be the problem?”

Those present flinched as Optimus Prime joined the group from the rear. 

“Well, it seems that we’ve got a little…oversight…after the recharge bug,” Ratchet vented. 

“We neglected to take stock of everyone who was affected by the virus, Prime,” Prowl continued.

“And Trailbreaker barricaded himself in my workshop,” Wheeljack added. 

“He’s still rocking the violet, Prime,” Jazz explained.

“And we don’t have the capabilities to make another attitude adjuster,” Sparkplug admitted.

Optimus was quiet for a moment before nodding. “I see the problem.”

“He’s got all the engex and all the bean bag chairs!” Sunstreaker reminded.

“That,” the leader sighed, “is the least of my worries.” Raising his voice, he called out, “Trailbreaker, it’s Optimus.”

“Yeah, great! Bit busy here, can I ignore you some other time?”

Gear cackled; Brawn smacked his cohort across the back of the head. “What?” The red and blue Minibot protested. “It was funny!”

“Trailbreaker, can we talk about this — ”

“Yep, we did, great conversation, now I just want to know what FOOF is…”

“Don’t go near that!” Wheeljack shouted. “Dioxygen difluoride is highly reactive to everything! Don’t open that barrel!”

“What are you doing with dioxygen difluoride?” Sparkplug demanded.

Wheeljack shrugged. “I was fascinated with its reactive properties.”

“Trailbreaker — ” Optimus’s tone took a commanding dive.

“By the way, Prime, so glad you finally got my name right; pretty much killed us off with that. Great job!”

“He’s got a point there,” Gears guffawed; Brawn smacked him again.

“We need to get him out ASAP,” Ratchet grumbled.

“I like this new attitude,” Gears laughed. “He’s actually funny!”

“I’ll give you funny, with a swift kick into the stratosphere,” Brawn warned.

“C'mon Teebs, let’s play nice here!” Jazz suggested. “Whatdaya want, my mech? Yanno, that moonshine Ironhide be brewing is weak as scrap — ”

“Hey!” Ironhide countered.

“ — so why don’t you and me hit the good stuff I’ve been hording? Whatdaya say?”

“Sounds great, Jazz! Maybe if I hadn’t already raided your hab before you guys messed around outside, I’d take you up on it!”

“What a jerk,” Huffer muttered.

“I like it!” Gears countered.

“Okay, emergency huddle.” Jazz waved everyone in to a circle. His voice low, he ordered, “Okay, we can’t coerce him outta there, we need to figure out how to make another attitude adjuster, and we need to do it fast before he starts experimenting in there.”

“He wouldn’t do that!” Wheeljack protested.

“Um…yeah, he would,” Ironhide corrected. “He’s the one who helped me set up my — um — ”

“I already know you’ve been brewing moonshine, Ironhide,” Prowl growled.

“So what’s the plan then?” Bumblebee hissed.

“I think I have an idea,” Optimus muttered, “but it’s a long shot. Wheeljack, Sparkplug, Roller still has one of the attitude adjusters attached to him. Can you attempt to reboot it?”

“I don’t see why not,” Wheeljack nodded. “Though the lithium ion charge might be a problem…”

“We’ll figure that out on the fly,” Sparkplug reminded.

“I’ll see what I can do to lure him out,” Optimus explained, “but I’m going to need a hand from Hound and Mirage.”

*

“Here’s the lowdown,” Prowl kept his voice down, even outside the base. “Giving the situation, Trailbreaker will be exhibiting the worst of his vices. His careful consumption of fuel will be excessive consumption and general laziness, not to mention hording.”

“I have that covered,” Optimus nodded. “Let’s go over the plan once more.”

Hound nodded. “Prime will lull him out with the promise of Primus Chosen, thousand stel tungsten-casked — ”

“An excellent vintage,” Wheeljack translated to his human friend, with a hand over his spark, “and quite hard to find — ”

“— and I’ll sneak into the lab, cloaked, to secure the lithium-ion recharging unit,” Mirage nodded.

“While he’s distracted,” Hound filled in, “I’ll cast a hologram of the base in flames.”

“This will disorientate him,” Prowl reported. “He will catch on quickly to the ruse, but by the time he realises there’s an issue, Mirage would have located the recharger and left the lab.”

“By then, he’ll attempt to retreat back into the lab — ” Prowl prompted.

“And we’ll be able to corner and subdue him!” Sparkplug finished.

“Just one issue I see,” Mirage pointed out. “He’s likely overcharged by now. He could be unpredictable.”

“Or placated,” Hound countered.

Mirage regarded the green Autobot with a cocked brow before returning his attention to Prowl. “Likely unpredictable.”

“I’ve dealt with overcharged Teebs,” Jazz retorted. “Give 'im a taste of some Herbie Hancock and watch him spin 'round like a record.”

“That’s Dead or Alive,” Bumblebee corrected.

“I know that, 'Bee, but it didn’t jive too clean, y'dig?”

“If he gets too out of control, I have the stasis cuffs ready,” Prowl reported. 

“Oh, yeah, like that’s gonna work,” Ironhide muttered.

“We’ll trust our abilities to keep our friend placated,” Optimus stressed. “We are not to harm him, understood?”

“Of course not, Prime!” Ironhide exclaimed.

Still, the others were apprehensive as they returned to the base, where Gears and Brawn had kept vigil on the workshop door.

“Nope, still here,” the red and blue Minibot flipped a thumb towards the door. “Though from my guess, he’s already completely obliterated.”

“Not enough to find you attractive!” Trailbreaker countered.

Now Brawn laughed.

“Wow,” Sideswipe harrumphed. “Evil Teebs is a jerk.”

“Trailbreaker, enough of this!” Optimus ordered. “Please, listen to reason!”

“Oh, I know what you’re planning! You’re gonna lure me out, get 'Raj to sneak in here, get whatever the heck you want, and whatever else happens after. I’m drunk, not stupid!”

“So,” Jazz turned to Prowl with a cock-eyed smirk. “Plan B?”

Prowl scowled.

“Trailbreaker, we’re your friends,” Optimus switched tactics. “We’re trying to help you. And you’re not yourself. Please, come out from there and let’s discuss things — ”

Glass shattered behind them, and Sunstreaker, standing over the remnants of a bottle and its contents with another in his fist, shouted, “Hear that, Teebs? That was the sound of thousand stel, tungsten casked, premium whisky! Care for a repeat performance?! I’ve got two left, and you’ve got thirty clicks till there’s only one!”

“Where did you get that…?” Ironhide demanded just as the workshop door hissed opened; out stormed an irate but clearly inebriated Trailbreaker staggered out, glaring angrily at the yellow front liner.

“Now that’s what I call substance abuse,” Wheeljack whistled as Mirage took his arm and bolted into the workshop.

Sunstreaker smashed the second bottle just before Trailbreaker reached him; Ironhide and Prowl tackled the larger mech, the latter with stasis cuffs at the ready.

“We don’t have much time!” Wheeljack dug through the massive pile of cables and devices in the centre of the room, before extracting a small rectangular device with three prongs. “Got it! Let’s go!”

Those charged with bringing the berserk specialist down were having a hard time keeping him sedated. Jazz, Prowl, and Ironhide both flew back from an offencive force shield threw them against the far wall. Shaking off the stasis cuffs, Trailbreaker clenched his hand, burning optics scanning for the next person who dared cross him — 

“Yo, Teebs!” Sunstreaker beckoned, shaking the last bottle. “You want it? Take it!" 

And, with that, he lobbed it as though it were a grenade, a high arc over their heads.

Trailbreaker uttered an Old High Cybertronian curse before throwing his hand out to catch the bottle, just as Sunstreaker dove for the workshop doors.

"Sparkplug, the attitude adjuster!” Wheeljack shouted, as the human, dislodging the spheroid from Optimus’s six-wheeled component, rushed it to his fellow mechanic.

“Do not hurt him!” Optimus reminded as he joined the fray, hands out to show he was unharmed. “Trailbreaker, old friend, please! You are not yourself!”

“Keep him occupied!” Ratchet ordered, just as he too was thrown back. 

“It’ll take seventy thousand astroseconds for the attitude adjuster to charge!” Wheeljack stated.

“It’s one-ten!” Sparkplug shouted, pointing to a wound cable just inside the workshop. “Extension cord! Now!”\

Mirage was quick on his feet, and bolted, obtaining the object the human requested. Tossing the coil to Wheeljack, the inventor plugged the cord into the wall. “I don’t see how this will work — ”

“Tetherball!” Sparkplug interrupted, grabbing the other end and attaching it to the charger, before picking up the attitude adjuster. “I have a plan!”

“Sparkplug, no! It’s too dangerous!” Ratchet ordered; the human ignored the warning and bolted forward, slamming the device against Trailbreaker’s leg.

The defence specialist shouted out in pain as he dropped to his knees; Sparkplug darted out of the way, under the safety of Hound’s arm.

“I’m sorry, old friend,” Optimus approached the writhing mech, “but we had to do what we could to help you.”

Wheeljack counted to ten before unplugging the cord from the wall, the electrocution subsiding. “That’s gonna give him one humdinger of a hangover, that’s for certain,” he sighed. “Sparkplug, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” the human nodded. “But what about Trailbreaker?”

The Autobot in question, now on his hands and knees, smoke billowing from his joints, heaved. “I — ” he coughed. “What happened?”

Sunstreaker, arms ladened with the beanbag chairs, stormed towards the common room, and snapped, “you stole the beanbag chairs, you barbarian!”


	2. The Failure of Flame-Retardants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeljack should have known better. With the help of Spike, Carly, and Chip, the Autobots work to air out the base while the Dinobots are distracted.

Acrid smoke and the sounds of fire suppression in progress greeted the three humans as they entered the Autobots' base; Red Alert, with an aggressive "stop" gesture, met them before they could traverse deeper down the corridor.

"Stay back! It's not safe!" the white and red security chief ordered. "We fear a Decepticon infiltrated our base and attempted to sabotage Teletraan-1 — "

"Calm down, Red," Inferno approached the entrance; his chassis was sooty and reeking of burnt plastic. "It was an accident, nothing more. We got it under control. Though you might want to wait a bit for the place to air out." This, he addressed to their human allies. "Synthetic materials tend to stink up the place."

"What happened?" Carly questioned.

"Three alarm fire," Red Alert answered. "Once the air clears, I'll be able to investigate the cause of — "

"Wheeljack, with help from the Dinobots," Inferno interrupted. "We were there, Red, remember?"

"Did the Dinobots lose control again?" Spike demanded.

"No, nothing like that," Inferno waved away the comment, just as Sunstreaker, making a production of gasping for breath, staggered past them and outside. "Oh, knock it off!" the first responder snapped, "I saw you shut your vents when the whole mess started!"

"Do you know what synthetics do to my complexion?" Sunstreaker countered from the mouth of the base.

"Anyway, Wheeljack was testing out this new flame retardant for synthetics, and thought it would be nice to let the Dinobots help out. And we can all imagine what happened after that."

"Is everyone all right?" Chip asked.

"Yeah, as so long as you don't ask Gears or Huffer," Sideswipe, unlike his twin, was in no hurry to leave the base. "And then Mr 'Not my paintjob!' decided to flip out."

"My clearcoat is compromised!"

"I'll give you compromised," Sideswipe groused, then flipped his thumb to indicate the base. "Ratchet gave the all clear for the humans. Air might be a little dry, but it's safe." Now pointing to the mouth of the cavern, he added, "I'll go calm down pretty boy."

"Hey, Red," Chip beckoned, "dare I ask what was the test subject?"

On cue, Trailbreaker, with a forcefield of blackened remains hovering in front of him, lead a procession of Dinobots and Minibots. "Anyone wishing to pay last respects to the dearly departed, follow me!"

"The beanbag chairs," Inferno sighed.

Though Spike and Chip glanced at each other with shared confusion, Carly gasped, holding her hands to her mouth. "Oh, no! I'm so sorry, guys! I don't think I ever told Wheeljack about the types of synthetics used in manufacturing!" Spinning on her heel to face Spike and Chip, she explained further: "So in my AP Physics class we were assigned a project to develop a visual for mass displacement using various solids and weights — well, not to bore you with details, my group decided to make a beanbag chair designed to withstand the weight for a standard Autobot while still comfortable." To Spike's vacant expression, she added, "Look, I've been accepted to a university where the students, when bored, disassemble and reassemble a professor's vehicle on the roof. This wasn't the craziest idea that came up for group projects."

"Barbaric," Red Alert shuddered, leading the way back to the inner cavern.

"Anyway, we did the research and approached a couple of manufacturers to help us test our theories, about how thick the outer shell needed to be to resist tears, the density of the pellets, that sort of thing. And not only did they help with confirming our data, they made some custom beanbags for 'field tests.' You know, to thank the Autobots for their help against the Decepticons, the only thing they asked is that we report back with our test results."

"These…chairs — if one could call them that — had proved to be above satisfactory in their intended use," Red Alert grumbled. "However, and it pains me to admit this, I did not take into consideration that they would be abused — "

"Red liked the chairs, by the way," Inferno delivered his comment in a melodramatic whisper. "Heck, we all did. In fact, and I don't think he's admitting it, but Prime's got his locked in his quarters."

"Morale is at an all-time low," Red Alert lamented. "Soon, mutiny."

Upon entering the common room, the three humans were hit by the stench of burnt plastic. Ironhide, assisted by Grapple and Hoist, were in the process of setting up a high-powered aeration system. Perceptor was haunched over his workstation, muttering chemical components while Wheeljack sat in a nearby corner, pouring over his notes.

"I'm so sorry, Wheeljack!" Carly initiated, running to the inventor's side. "I should have warned you about man-made synthetic materials and how they react to certain chemistry compounds!"

"Still, I should have taken into consideration that diphenyl ketone does not react to polyvinyl chloride…"

"If you properly labelled your chemicals, this unfortunate incident would not have occurred," Perceptor chided, without looking up from his work.

"Is there anything we can do about the smell in here?" Spike questioned, holding his nose.

"Perhaps some activated charcoal would help," Chip suggested. "We could construct filtration units to take care of the odour."

Upon the mention of "construct", Grapple's head snapped up. "Oh, I could build a casing utilising the fans! We would need cleated furnace filters, the larger the better. And ductwork. Perhaps five-hundred metres would be enough, aluminum, not vinyl. And — "

"Oh, I think the filters and charcoal would suffice, Grapple," Hoist gently interrupted as Bumblebee returned inside.

"Ducked out of the funeral early," he chuckled. "One can take only so much of Trailbreaker eulogising about his favourite naps with the chairs."

"Oh, Bumblebee, so good of you to return!" Grapple exclaimed. "Would you mind going into town and picking up a dozen packs of one metre by one metre by thirty millimetre cleated furnace filters, preferably rated ten or higher, five hundred metres of aluminum duct, two-hundred-and-fifty kilogrammes of activated charcoal — "

"Grapple," Hoist reminded, "I believe two packs of whatever furnace filters he can find and four five-kilo bags of charcoal will suffice. We can build to spec when he returns."

"Oh. Well, all right."

"I was about to say," Bumblebee laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, "I don't think I could haul that much back to base. Though I could use some help loading. Spike?"

"Anything to help with this smell!" the brown-haired youth agreed.

"I'll come too!" Carly offered. "Chip?"

"If it's all right with you, I'll help Grapple and Hoist," Chip stated. "If we need anything else, we'll contact you through Bumblebee's radio."

*

Two Hours Later…  
Olde Tyme Soda Shoppe Outdoor Patio  
Downtown District

After a detour to Carly's house to pick up her project notes, then to the hardware store for the supplies, the three stopped for a bite to eat.

"We should pick something up for Chip," Carly suggested as she sipped her chocolate soda.

"Good idea," Spike agreed. "I'll go order a burger and fries, though no telling if he'll have much of an appetite after smelling burnt plastic for the past…what, hour?"

"Two," Bumblebee, in vehicle mode, corrected. "We probably should head back before Optimus comes back to find that Grapple created a thruster-hamster maze out of every bit of flexible duct he can find."

"Good point." Spike finished his ice cream soda with a hefty slurp. "I'll go get something for Chip. Carly, could you radio back to base to see if they — "

Five men in black suits ran past, one of which ducked into the soda shop, only to emerge ten seconds later to rejoin the departing crew.

"I wonder what that's about?" Carly questioned.

Spike shrugged. "Who knows? Probably some super-secret government agency trying to look for aliens again. So, burgers and fries for me and Chip — probably should pick something up for Dad too, he's probably back the base by now."

Unusual occurrence out of mind, Carly claimed the driver's side seat. Taking the CB receiver from its cradle, she hailed, "Base, this is Carly. Anything else we need before heading back? Over."

"Uh, Carly?" Bumblebee beckoned.

"Yes?"

"Um…nothing. It's nothing."

By the time Spike returned with four orders of burgers and fries, it was late afternoon. With nothing else on the list save for automotive wax by request of Sunstreaker, which Spike had already grabbed as an afterthought, they departed the downtown district and headed to the highway.

"So, who do you suppose those guys were looking for?" he questioned, one of the fries boxes in his lap while blindly placing the rest of the bag atop of the furnace filters.

"I might have a hunch," Bumblebee admitted.

"Thanks, I'm starving." The brunette in the backseat sat up, taking a burger from the bag and unwrapped it. "You don't know how long I've been dodging those jerks. I'm so glad I saw you and Bumblebee and — hi, I don't think I know you — but anyway, I didn't want to go to their stupid annual board meeting anyway. That's why it's called a board meeting, because it's so boring!"

Carly squeaked in surprise, jumping in her seat; Spike groaned, sinking in his. "Hi, Astoria," he greeted, deadpan.

"So I figured I give those losers the slip and — hey, this is a great burger! — maybe head back to the base with you guys because it's so much more fun hanging out with the Autobots than some stodgy old men trying to tell me what to do. So what's all this stuff for? And what's this? 'Mass Displacement Utilising Polystyrene Beads' — ?"

"That's my Physics homework," Carly explained, cutting off the brunette, "and we're building an air filtration unit for the Autobot base. They had a fire and — "

"Oh no! That's horrible! What happened?"

"Wheeljack was testing a new flame retardant. The only casualties were some bean bag chairs and our senses of smell," Spike answered, still slumped in his seat and staring ahead.

"Well, that won't do! I could call my company's cleaning service to help out. They're the best in the nation, and have government contracts with top security clearance." Finishing the burger, she rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a large white device.

Spike kicked Bumblebee's dashboard.

"Oh, that's all right, Astoria!" The Autobot scout picked up the hint. "Grapple might get upset if we change plans without consulting him."

"Well, there's got to be something I can do to help!" Astoria whined. "Maybe I can help with putting these things together — "

"No! No, it's okay, Astoria, we have it covered," Spike hid his face.

"Is that a DynaTAC 8000X?" Carly, picking up her friends' distress, took control of the situation.

"What? Oh, you mean this old thing?" Astoria held up the device. "Yeah, they wanted me to carry it at all times. Stupid thing keeps dying on me, though. Threw away six of them before I realised they need charging."

Carly hiccoughed in surprise.

"Yeah, should mention Astoria owns controlling shares of Hybrid Technologies," Spike pointed out.

"And it's boring!" Astoria reminded. "I'd rather hang out with the Autobots any day than deal with those boring old fogeys."  
Arriving back at base, they drove by the funeral, still in session: all but the Dinobots and Trailbreaker had abandoned the procession, the black and grey mech now pouring the contents of a small energon cube over the remains.

"What are they doing?" Astoria demanded, interrupting herself from a long-winded tirade of how boring her life was.

"My guess: Teebs is keeping the Dinobots occupied while the others clean up," Bumblebee replied.

Entering the base, they stopped just before the inner cavern; Carly and Spike unloaded the charcoal and filters as Astoria carried the takeaway.

"Ugh! What's that smell?" Astoria cried, covering her nose.

"Oh, great, who let her in here?" Powerglide groused, dropping the armload of one-by-twelves he was carrying as per the engineer's instructions. "Don't you have a company to run into the ground?"

"And where have you been? I haven't heard from you in two weeks!"

"Hiding from you, you loudmouth harpy!"

"This is how they flirt," Spike hissed to Carly as he handed the bag of charcoal to Grapple. "We've learnt to ignore it."

"So why don't you just get new ones?" Astoria demanded once Powerglide relayed the events, complete with his own colourful commentary.

"Because they were custom made, you thick-skulled ninny! You can't go in a department store and say, 'hey, I'm looking for twelve Autobot-sized bean bag chairs to go with my turn-of-the-century chaise lounge'— "

"Don't they have those electric shock collars for humans?" Sunstreaker interjected, pantomiming pressing a button on a remote. "Starts barking and zap!"

"All right! You don't have to be so mean about it!" Astoria stomped her foot.

"Um…hi, I'm Chip?" the wheelchair-bound youth greeted from the drafting board he and Hoist were currently occupying.

"See? He's civil to me!" Astoria rooted through her handbag once more, retrieving her phone. Punching numbers, she brought the device to her ear. "I need to speak to Francis. No, I do not need to let security know where I am. Francis. Now." A pause. "Francis, yeah, I need to place a custom order for thirty bean bag chairs. No, no, they need to be custom! Like — big! You know, big! No, bigger than king-size! Like, ten yards square by two yards high. Don't give me that, they're for my friends. Yeah, those friends. We'll pick them up. Right, Powerglide? We'll pick them up. No, I am not coming back to that boring old meeting! Just get me those bean bag chairs! You're breaking up, Francis, I can't hear — oh, blast it!" Frustrated, she threw the device against the ground, shattering it. "I hate stupid machines!" Before anyone could protest, she held up a finger. "I said stupid machines!"

"Astoria, what did you just volunteer me for?" Powerglide demanded.

"Well, obviously you need to have something comfortable around here," she crossed her arms across her chest and kicked at the remains of her phone. "Can't be at all comfortable sitting on those slabs, can it? And seriously, let me call my cleaning crew; they'll have this place scrubbed down and deodorised in no time. It's the least I can do for you guys."

*

"…and so, by the power vested in me by the Covenant of Primus, and the state of Oregon, we intern our friends, the impossibly comfy bean bag chairs, into the earth, which probably isn't the best of ideas since they're not in any way biodegradable. Join me in saying farewell to these trusty allies…"

"How long has Trailbreaker been at it?" Spike sipped his hot chocolate as the four humans sat on the look-out ledge, along with Bumblebee, Powerglide, and Hound.

"At least five hours, my guess," they yellow scout shrugged.

"Hey, if it keeps those knuckleheads distracted," the red and grey flyer retorted, "at least until the replacements get here, he can preach the gospel of Alchemist Prime got all I care."

"You know, I'm wondering," Astoria, elbows on her knees, tapped her cheek, "if maybe Wheeljack can help with developing flame resistant material; I know the nerds have been working on puncture- and flame-resistant fabric in the labs. They might learn something from him."

"And vice versa," Hound contemplated. "Let's talk to Wheeljack and Prime about it when the big guy returns to base. I'm certain — huh. We got incoming." Activating his comm link, he ordered, "Teebs, wrap it up and get the Dinobots inside. 'Bee, kids, you too. Powerglide, recon."

Before Astoria could protest, Powerglide held up a finger. "May be nothing; go pester Percy. He'll love your prattle." Jumping from the ledge, he shifted to vehicular mode and headed towards the approaching convoy.

Within thirty seconds, the flyer reported back: "It's Prime and Sparkplug! Looks like they've got some buddies with them, too!" A pause. "Better tell Astoria to go hide in the Dinobots' cave. Preferably with them in there. Let's see how long she can last annoying Grimlock."

"Are those Hybrid Technology vans?" Chip questioned as Bumblebee picked up his wheelchair and slid down the face of the ledge.

"No wonder Powerglide told Astoria to hide," Spike stated.

Entering the common room once more, they found Optimus Prime, knee bent in front of three men in business suits.

"Astoria, you seemed to have caused a bit of a stir today," Optimus looked up at the four younger humans.

"What, just because I wanted to pretend being normal for a change?" This, she directed to the three men.

"That's a matter of opinion," Powerglide muttered.

"Regardless," Sparkplug cleared his throat, "When Wheeljack called me to explain what had happened, Mr Carnegie here happened upon my garage, looking for Astoria."

The oldest of the three men, in a brown pinstripe suit, bowed his head. "Astoria, my dear, there are protocols in place when you are to go out — "

"Oh!" Astoria stamped her foot. "That's not normal! Normal is having a chocolate soda with friends! Normal is hanging out at the arcade! Normal is not having men in black skulking about while I'm pretending to shop for pretty dresses."

"Nor is it normal to have an alien robot boyfriend," Spike muttered.

Powerglide guffawed, then, "Wait a minute—"

Mr Carnegie continued, "When we received the call from your butler that you had contacted him about ordering thirty Autobot-sized…erm…bean bag chairs?…we were relieved to know you were in good hands, but still, you must let us know these things!"

Astoria huffed, crossing her arms over her chest and turned her back on the three.

Sighing, Mr Carnegie pushed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. "We had already the specifications from our fabric manufacturing devision; as it were, they had been approached by the local Advance Placement Physics class regarding such project, and, upon hearing what had transpired, had built ten of these…chairs…with the remainder to be completed by week's end."

"Oh!" Carly held her hand to her mouth, looking at Astoria. "Your company was the one who sponsored our project?!"

The brunette shrugged. "Sorry, I don't keep track, though I'm glad it was. I mean, you guys deserve to have our thanks. Maybe other humans may not see it that way, but I know — we know — you've been good allies. Good friends. And if you guys want bean bag chairs, then by golly you're gonna have them!"

"Which is why, on Mr Carnegie's request," Sparkplug announced, "Optimus and I went to meet them."

"Roller, will you do the honours?" Optimus looked up at his trailer. The back opened, and the six-wheeled rover, obscured by the massive mound of bean bag chairs stacked atop of it, drove down the ramp and into the centre of the common room and deposited the cargo.

Cheers echoed through the base, and the Dinobots, upon hearing the commotion, stormed from their cavern and dog-piled onto the beanbags.

"Friends come back!" Snarl cried, muffled under Slag.

"Now, if we can do something about the smell," Astoria grumbled.

"We tried, the Dinobots always smell like that," Powerglide countered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one had a self-imposed challenge: I only allowed Trailbreaker two spoken lines. It was difficult. But I did it!


End file.
